After days of sun, mist accumulates 

in the land’s dips and hollows

morphing at times into fine rain

and then again into vapour

clinging to plant matter. 

 

In the evening, the rain stops,

the mist lifts and a radiance 

is cast here and there over plants

and ground with intense colour

 

as I walk across the field, 

the saturated grass shines 

with a patchwork of 

water-laden silverweed leaves

 

the old twisted hawthornes, 

so desiccated and gnarled as to be 

mistaken for dead during winter

now, in almost unreal contrast burst 

with the freshest, most utterly vibrant green.

 

larches soft, bright peridot needles 

have faded to a relaxing chalky mint 

a multitude of droplets caught in its layers, 

keeping the forest floor dry within.

 

field maples open their rubied leaf tufts,

bare branches of sloes and leafing cherries 

are laden with blossom, white and pink

punctuating the scenery with delicate warmth.

 

The last of the watery glow 

cast by the setting sun rests upon 

bluebell buds, congregating on every slope 

and hill, poised to transform ground 

into sea, any day now.